fragile as a dream
by faithsette
Summary: "It might have just been a dream, a figment of his imagination, but Kate Beckett is very real and if something happens to her he'd never forgive himself." One shot, set after The Limey.


**A/N:** Trigger warning for brief, non-graphic mentions of suicide.

* * *

The shrill ringing of his phone on the bedside table breaks him from sleep, has him groaning as he shifts beneath the blankets. He squeezes his eyes shut and folds the pillow over his ears to drown it out, hoping it'll silence itself without forcing him to actually move and do it himself.

But it doesn't, so he huffs as his eyes peel open and a hand lazily grabs for the device.

His eyes squint at the screen, but he doesn't need clear vision to read the name; he knows the picture that's shining back at him, knows it all too well. It's Beckett, and for a few very tempting seconds he considers ignoring it, letting it go to voicemail because it's—4:28 in the morning.

He doubts there's a body right now, and even if there is he thinks he'll sit it out.

Regardless, the tiny part of him that's curious as to why she's calling wins out in the end and with a sigh he answers. "Beckett, do you know what time it is?"

Silence.

All he hears is breathing on the other line and he sits up a bit straighter, more alert. "Beckett?"

"Give me a reason not to kill myself."

His breath catches in his throat at the same time his heart hammers in his chest, crashing almost painfully against his rib cage for release. He hears a noise that sounds something like a gasp, and it takes a few seconds to register that it's come from _him_.

"What?" he asks slowly, willing his voice to stay calm even as he rips the covers off of his body. "Kate."

"Give me a reason not to kill myself, Castle," she repeats, and the tone of her voice sends chills down his spine.

She sounds so far away, so distant, so defeated. Her voice is soft but it wavers, every inch of it screaming with resignation.

"Because you're loved, Beckett," he says so seriously, his voice verging on hysterical as he throws on his jacket and leaves the loft. "Because you're so special and you have so much more to give. Because this isn't what your mom would want, because this would kill your father." He jumps into the car as his voice trails off and peels out without so much as looking behind him.

He leaves out that it would kill him too, because this isn't about him. It's about talking her down from whatever hell it is that's crawled into her mind, her body.

More silence.

"Kate."

Breathing. There's breathing, _she's_ breathing, so he forces himself to relax his tension-filled shoulders and focus on the road.

He keeps talking. "You need a reason? Because I—because if you do this, it would break everyone. You're needed, Beckett. We _all_ need you. Ryan, Espo, Lanie. Me," he admits, though he knows his behavior recently contradicts that very statement. " _Everyone_. You're extraordinary."

She huffs. "No, I'm not." There's a pause. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—" He hears rustling on her end, a crash and a curse, and his heart speeds up. "I'm sorry, Castle."

"Beckett," he yells into the receiver, but there's no answer. He pulls the phone away from his ear to realize she hung up, and his fingers frantically dial her number again. "Come on."

She doesn't answer and he slams his hand onto the steering wheel, pushes his foot harder on the gas.

He can barely hear himself think over the thrashing of his heart and he tries to stay calm, rationalize this and make himself believe that she won't do this. She couldn't possibly be thinking about doing this.

But she is, apparently, and that's why she's called him in the middle of the night, asking for a reason to keep her life.

Tears rush to the surface but he pushes them back, keeps them at bay because he can't do this right now. He can't break down behind the wheel because if he does he'll just make it worse, and that's not what anyone needs.

He's only a few minutes from her apartment now but he can't shut his mind off, can't stop the panic from curling at his insides and suffocating him. Were there signs? There are usually signs with these kinds of situations, right? His mind goes wild trying to think of them, of something, _anything_ that should've alerted him that Beckett wasn't herself, was thinking about hurting herself. But he's got nothing.

For someone who's supposed to be so observant, so detail oriented, he has nothing.

This is his fault.

She asked if he had a minute last night, after the case that had her going to some fancy party with Scotland Yard pretty boy, Colin Hunt. But he said no. He said he didn't have a minute to talk and just walked away, pretended he didn't see the pained look on her face at the rejection.

What if this is what she wanted to talk to him about? What if he could've stopped this before it even started, avoided this late night phone call? She might have been ready to talk to him about whatever it is that she's obviously feeling, everything that's brought this to the forefront of her mind, but he was too busy with his own pitiful anger and wounded pride that he couldn't even give her the time she asked for.

And now she's—now she's scaring him, terrifying him to a point that he's never experienced before.

He barely pays attention to the park job he's just done, just makes sure he's somewhat against the curb before he turns the car off and hops out, slamming the door in his haste to run across the street to her building. Usually he'll pause, talk to whoever's in the lobby, but he doesn't do that now. No, now he doesn't have time. He doesn't wait for the elevator either, just takes long strides up the stairs to her floor, ignoring the tightness in his chest.

It's from both the exertion and the panic, he knows.

Her door comes into view and he pounds on it, shouting her name in the process.

"Beckett!" He's far too aware that it's the middle of the night, that her neighbors are asleep, but he can't bring himself to worry about that. Not right now. "Beckett! Kate!"

Nothing.

Her gun. Does she have her gun? Of course she does, she always has her gun. His stomach drops.

 _I'm sorry, Castle_.

Stepping back, he takes a deep breath before springing forward, surging his body into the door until it opens. He does wonder if it was unlocked to begin with, because it gave way maybe a little too easily, but he decides not to question it.

His eyes take in her apartment, seemingly normal, nothing out of place. They stop at her kitchen counter; her gun is resting on the surface, safety off but unused.

It hasn't been fired. It hasn't been fired so she hasn't used it.

Running water.

He hears running water and he's back in action, following the sound into the bathroom he's only been in a number of times. It's a surprise that he knows this place as well as he does considering the limited amount of time he's spent here. Only a few odd evenings after a long shift when they'd get some food and continue to look over the files, and that one time she allowed him in her bubble, let him see the murder board that she'd hid away from everyone else. Nothing beyond that. Yet now here he is for a completely different reason.

He wishes they were just looking over some case files.

The door is cracked open, and his attention is drawn to the water flooding the floor. His fists push the door open the rest of the way until he's in, his eyes immediately falling to the overflowing tub.

"Beckett!"

She's under the water, eyes closed, face slack, and he blinks back the tears as he grabs her. Her clothes are still on, soaked through and freezing, and his fingers grip at the fabric as he uses it as leverage to tug her above the water's surface.

"Kate!" he tries again, but she's not moving. Her eyes don't open. "Come on, please!"

He's on his knees, jeans already drenched before he stands again, uses all of his strength to pull her out and lay her gently onto the floor. Her skin is pale and he realizes with utter horror that her chest isn't rising. She's not breathing. His fingers press against her wrist, praying for a miracle, for any chance that there's still a shallow pulse.

He keeps them there for over a minute, hoping for something, but there's nothing.

"Kate," he whispers, his voice breaking around her name. His arms wrap around her, clutching the limp body to his chest. He lets the tears come now and they fall freely as the sobs wrack his body. "I'm so sorry, Kate."

He's too late.

* * *

He bolts awake, his chest heaving, and he immediately rests his face in his hands. It takes a few minutes but he finally lifts his head and looks around, almost expecting to find himself in Beckett's bathroom, on the tiled floor with her body in his arms.

But then his eyes take in his surroundings; his bed, the book shelves, his office just a few feet away.

He's in his room. He's in his room and it was just a dream—or a nightmare, actually.

The blankets rustle beneath him as he shifts, brushing against his bare legs as he pushes them off his body. It's too hot, his skin too sweaty; he can't sit under them anymore.

He digs the heel of his palm into his eyes.

Just a dream. Not real.

Beckett's fine. She's alive and she's fine. She didn't call him in the middle of the night, she didn't drown herself before he could stop her.

He knows it's true, knows that he's in his room and not in her bathroom, but he can't shake the crippling need to be one hundred percent convinced. His phone is beside him and he picks it up, dials her number and tries to ignore the tiny voice reminding him of what time it is and that she's going to be pissed he woke her up.

Especially after how he's been shutting her out; a call from him is probably the last thing she'd expect, anyway.

There's no answer, and he isn't exactly surprised—it really is late, after all—but this does nothing to soothe his worries. With a growl he gets up, throws on some sweatpants and a hoodie, and heads towards the door.

This is ridiculous. She's _fine_.

But maybe she's not. Maybe this nightmare is a sign telling him that he should've talked to her when she asked, that he shouldn't have been such an ass about pushing her away. It might have just been a dream, a figment of his imagination, but Kate Beckett is very real and if something happens to her—

He'd never forgive himself.

No, he won't let it.

* * *

The walk up to her door gives him a sinking sense of deja vu but he pushes it back, shakes his head to will it away. It wasn't real.

This is real. Right here and right now, this is real.

He knocks on the door without much hesitation, and—surprisingly—it only takes a few knocks for the door to open and a very disheveled, exhausted looking Beckett to step into his view. He's not sure he's ever been this relieved to see her.

Well, that's a lie, there was that time at the hospital after her shooting. But this is a close second.

"Castle?" She squints, surprise written all over her face even in her sleepy state as she takes him in. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

He nods dumbly, can't help the small smile that takes over his face or the sigh of utter relief that escapes.

"Beckett," he breathes, his hands reaching up to touch her but they fall short. "I'm—I'm sorry. It's stupid, I just had to see you."

A brow arches. "What's going on, Castle?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing," he says, running a hand through his hair. "Nothing. It's fine."

"You're here at five in the morning. Obviously it's not fine."

Well, she's not wrong. But she's not completely right either.

"I just needed to see you," he repeats, doesn't know what else to say to explain unless he wants to delve into the nightmare. And he's not sure that he does.

She leans against the door frame, an arm coming up to hug her torso. "Why?"

He sighs. "To make sure you're all right," he murmurs quietly. "I'll let you get back to sleep."

He turns to leave, but her hand touches his arm and she nods behind her towards the living room, signaling tiredly for him to come in. After a second of hesitation he does, walks over the threshold and past her until he's standing against her couch.

"Why wouldn't I be okay?"

"I uh—I had a dream," he starts, clears his throat when his voice threatens to give out. "Just had to be sure."

She eyes him for a second before her face softens, realization and understanding clouding her features. He's sitting on the edge of the couch cushion now and she moves to sit across from him.

"I died?" she asks, but she already knows the answer. She's no stranger to these nightmares, and knows there are only a few reasons one would have to _be sure_.

He thinks about it for a minute, deciding whether or not he's going to go into it, before giving a small nod. "Killed yourself," he clarifies softly.

Her eyes widen as she looks back at him. "Castle, I—" He jerks involuntarily when a hand comes to rest on his knee, and he finally brings his eyes to hers. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Yes. No. Yes and no.

He lets out a heavy sigh. "You called me," he begins, twisting so he's facing in her general direction but not actually looking at her. "At four in the morning, and you told me to give you a reason not to kill yourself." She lets out a small breath. "I told you—I tried to tell you why you shouldn't, tried to give you a reason, but you just told me you were sorry and hung up."

"Castle..."

"I went to your apartment, found your gun on the counter, safety off." Her eyes are soft as she looks at him. "You didn't use it," he adds. "But your bathroom was flooding so I went in and you were… in the tub. You'd drowned yourself."

She moves closer, puts a tentative arm on his shoulder. "Castle, I'm right here."

"I was too late, Beckett."

This is ridiculous. She's sitting right next to him, so close that he's touching her—or she's touching him, really—but it's suddenly so vivid in his mind that he can't quite let it go.

"No," she says, shaking her head. "You can't be too late for something that hasn't happened. I'm fine, okay? Right here."

His elbows rest on his knees as he lowers his head, places it into his palms.

"You're not—you aren't—"

She blinks. "Thinking of killing myself?"

He makes a face but gives a small, sheepish nod. "Yeah."

"No," she says firmly, confident. "It was just a dream, Castle, there's no truth to it."

He already knew that, but hearing her say it eases what tension's still in his body.

Running his hands down his face, he lets out a relieved huff. His face rests hidden behind his palms, eyes closed as he just takes it all in, lets himself breathe. For a second he almost forgets where he is, forgets that he's woken her up at five in the morning just so he could make sure, definitively, that she's not submerged in her bathtub. He's only brought back to reality when the hand on his shoulder moves slowly down his forearm before vacating completely.

He brings his head up out of his hands but keeps his eyes closed, breathes out through his nose.

Her presence next to him is comforting but then he straightens up, as if just now remembering everything prior to this dream. She lied to him. He's been avoiding her in an attempt to move on and somehow, through some sick twist of fate, the universe has dumped him here. On her couch in the middle of the night, with her sitting not a foot away.

When his eyes open he realizes that she's watching him. There's something in her eyes that he can't pinpoint, but it's there, swirling beneath the surface, clouding over the hazel of her irises. Understanding, probably some surprise still; and, yeah, he is too.

He needs to get out of here before all of his progress—he almost huffs at that, because there's been next to no progress at all—is undone.

"Sorry, Beckett," he says on an exhale as he goes to stand. "I'll get out of here."

"Castle, wait."

He shouldn't stop. He knows he shouldn't stop. But he does. He stops and turns back towards her, who's now standing too, her eyes on him.

"What?"

She takes a step forward. "Why did you come here?" It's out before she has a second to think about it, about what she's saying and what she's starting right now, but the initial shock of him showing up has faded and now there's nothing but confusion.

She's unsure whether it's the late hour, lack of sleep, or his presence in general when he's been pulling away for a while now, but it makes her brave. It makes her willing to take this jump, get some real answers while she can. There's no turning back from this.

He blinks. "I already told you," he mutters slowly. "Had a dream—"

"That I killed myself," she finishes for him, nodding. "I know. I mean why are you _here_ , Castle?"

Is it just the ridiculous hour or is she not making sense? He's not sure which one it is, but he doesn't know what she's getting at.

"I don't understand the question."

Her mouth twists to the side as she shakes her head, lets out a humorless chuckle. "Why do you care?"

"Why do I care?" She nods. "Why do I care that you—that you killed yourself in my dream?"

"Yeah," she shrugs nonchalantly, wrapping her other arm around her chest. "Why'd you care enough to come check?"

His mouth drops open and he takes a step closer. "Are you—is that a serious question? Why do I— _why do I care enough to check on you?_ " His voice raises, the disbelief and bubbling anger growing. "After everything, after four years, do you _honestly_ believe that I wouldn't care if you died? If you'd killed yourself? You know that's not true."

"Maybe. But do I, really? Because it seems like you couldn't be bothered at all lately," she throws back, but instead of stepping forward she takes a step back, turns away. "And I don't know what I did, Castle, but obviously you don't want to be here anymore. So, no, I really don't know why you're here, or why you came."

He doesn't even know what to say.

Is she wrong? No. He doesn't—didn't—want to be here anymore. He's spent the past few weeks trying to fall out of love with her by distancing himself, cutting her off. But he only did it because she _lied_ , lied to him about the day she was shot and what she heard, what he said.

He takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself. "You really have no idea, do you?" His eyes match hers, but she only raises a brow in challenge. She wants a challenge? Fine, she'll get one. "You want to know why? I guess I just don't like being lied to."

Her brows scrunch together. " _Lied to?_ "

"I love you, Kate," he says on an exhausted sigh. "I love you, and that's why I couldn't sit in my apartment with the image of you drowning in my mind. That's why I couldn't just _not_ come over here and make sure, regardless of how stupid it is or how angry I am, that you're okay. _God_ , Beckett." Shaking his head, he turns away from her for a few seconds before looking back. " _I love you_. But you already know that."

Yeah, if the wide eyed, panicked deer-in-the-headlights look is any indication, she knows that.

"Castle, I—" She stops, runs a hand over her face before it all sinks in. "The bombing case." He just nods. "You were in the observation room when I..."

"When you admitted that you remember every second of when you'd been shot? Yeah, I was there."

Her chest puffs out with a deep breath and her eyes flutter closed, a hand coming to pinch the bridge of her nose. "And that's why you've been ignoring me and parading around with bimbettes at crime scenes?"

"It's not like you should care," he tosses back indignantly. "It's better that I know how you feel now so I'm not following you around like a clueless, love sick puppy. You could've just told me how you felt instead of lying, Beckett. I'm a big boy."

She arches a brow. "You think you know how I feel?" she questions, eyes blazing.

"I think it's pretty obvious. I admit my feelings for you, you know about it but then lie to—what, spare my feelings? Avoid telling me you don't feel the same way?"

Her laugh is completely humorless, but almost verging on hysterical. "You have this so ass backwards, Castle, even by your standards." She looks more confident now, taking one long stride closer to him. His instinct is to back away from it, maintain their space, but his feet are rooted to the ground. Her bottom lip is tugged between her teeth as she takes a deep breath. "I didn't lie because I don't feel the same way. I lied because I _do_."

He's—did he hear her correctly?

Because he can't possibly be hearing what he thinks he's hearing. No, it's the middle of the night and his brain is making things up.

"What?" His eyes meet hers, and he realizes that he did hear hear correctly. He blinks a few times, tries to catch his breath. "Why lie then?"

She shakes her head. "Because I'd just been shot, Castle," she breathes, averting her eyes. "I'd just been shot and you told me you loved me and it was too much. I couldn't handle it all, and I had to focus on recovering before I could even begin to deal with what you'd said or else it'd just swallow me whole. So I went to my dad's cabin to get away from it all. The city, the precinct, the confessions, everything."

He nods slowly. "But why not just tell me when you got back? Three months, Beckett. You leave for three months, come back, and you still say nothing."

" _Because_ ," she gets out, her voice loud but exhausted. "By then I'd already convinced myself that you didn't mean it, or that it was just a spur of the moment thing during a tragic moment. I didn't know if you were just saying it because I was shot, and then after three months—you were mad, and I figured that if you'd meant it to begin with, chances are…"

"We had that talk on the swings," he reminds her, recalling the day in his mind. She'd just come through his book signing line, and he was furious. No calls, nothing for three months and then she just showed up. "About your wall and a relationship—clearly you must've known I was still in it then."

She sighs. "I had to deal with my problems, Castle. I've been trying, and obviously failing, to be better, to be more than who I am right now. Trying to be someone you deserve, someone I wish I was."

He can feel the anger leaving his body despite the fact that he wants to be mad at her, wants to drag this out because she lied, but he can't—not when she's over here talking about wanting to be better for him, for _them_.

"No," he says on an exhale, inching his way more towards her. "You don't need to be better for anyone, least of all me." She brings her eyes up to his. "What I deserve? It's not you. I could never deserve you, Beckett."

She just huffs. "Yeah, you deserve better. Someone who's not a mess."

"We've both got issues."

"Some more than others," she murmurs, her voice low. This could not have gone any more differently than he thought it would. "I'm sorry, Castle. I just—I couldn't."

He takes a breath. "I know." And he does, now. He understands; he doesn't like the way she went about it, but he understands. Ultimately, he doesn't get off scott-free either. "And I'm sorry too," he says. "I should've just talked to you instead of shutting you out. Or bringing the other women around."

"They're all fun and uncomplicated, can't blame you."

Ouch. He almost forgot he said that, but he wishes he hadn't. "I'm sorry about that, too," he winces. He can't say that it wasn't true, but he made it sound worse than he'd meant it. "But it's not a bad thing." She quirks a brow, not convinced. "You may be complicated, yeah, but you're complex. You have depth, which is more than I can say for a lot of the others."

She laughs, and a small smile forms on his face at the sound. "We really made a mess of this, didn't we?"

"A little," he acknowledges, watching her gaze fall to her feet, "but that doesn't mean we can't fix it."

Her head lifts. "You think?"

"I think we have a pretty good chance."

She smiles, pausing for a second before she hesitantly steps into him, resting her head on his chest. "I'm sorry," she repeats, and he brings his hands around to curl at her back. "I wish this was easier, I wish I could be... more, better at this."

His chin comes down to lean on the top of her head. "You don't need to be more," he says seriously. "You're already everything. You, Katherine Beckett, are the most maddening, challenging, frustrating, _breathtaking_ woman I've ever met, but I wouldn't have it any other way."

She huffs against him, but eventually unfurls herself from his grip. "Come on," she says, tugging his hand towards her bedroom.

His eyes widen, threaten to bulge out of his head. "I—Kate—what?"

"Sleep," she clarifies, a teasing glint in her eyes. "It's late. There's no point in you driving home right now. And I think we have some things we need to talk about tomorrow."

Right, sleep. That sounds about right.

He nods. "Yeah, I think so too," he agrees, letting her guide him to the room. "Tomorrow."

"Let's go to bed, Castle."

* * *

 _Prompt: After 4x19 and 4x20, Kate calls Castle during night and asks him: "Give me a reason for not killing me"_


End file.
